The End of Magic

by James Mallory

  Its fatal beauty tempted him to sound it, but Frik was neither a wizard nor a Lord of Fairy. The Horn would not work for him.

  But it would work for Merlin.

  He must go to Camelot. If Merlin was not there, surely someone would know where he was. Merlin was the king’s wizard, after all.

  Carefully Frik wrapped the Horn up in a bit of cloth and tucked it away safely in his backpack. He had a long journey ahead of him, but for the first time since Morgan’s death, he had hope.

  If only he could reach Merlin before Mordred did.

  “I cannot teach you magic,” Mab said regretfully to Mordred. “But I can give you magic.”

  The two of them—mistress and protégé—were seated in the Great Hall, the largest chamber in Mab’s cthonian palace. Its silvery walls soared hundreds of feet into the air, toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadows. High narrow windows of stained glass glittered darkly, like sheets of black ice, and the walls were hung with banners that had once been gay and flaunting, though they were all dark and tattered now, and festooned with cobwebs. The long table at which the two of them were seated was the only thing that did not show the effects of age and neglect. A single sheet of black glass a dozen yards long, it hung in midair without any visible means of support.

  “I like presents,” Mordred said. He sat at Mab’s left hand, wearing the elaborate black velvet costume she’d given him, a vision in black and silver. He wore rings and brooches of onyx, jet, and black diamonds, and a black crown set with rubies.

  “You have learned all that I have to teach you,” Mab said reluctantly. “Even now, Arthur is crossing the Channel on his way back to Camelot. It is time for you to take your armor and your sword and go to meet him. The Armor of Night is made from the skin and scales of the last dragon. Wearing it will make you invulnerable to every weapon except one: Caliban. Caliban cannot be given—it must be taken. You will need the Armor of Night to claim the Black Sword.”

  “Caliban?” Mordred asked with interest.

  His days in the Land of Magic had been filled with many new experiences. Armored wraiths had taught him to become a deadly fighter with any weapon. The ghosts of long-dead generals had taught him strategy and tactics. All so that he could take the throne of Britain for his own. But despite the wonders he’d been shown, Mordred had not been taught any magic. Now, it seemed, he was about to get some.

  “Arthur has Excalibur, but all of the great magics create their own opposite. No weapon can stand against Excalibur, except one. Caliban, the shadow of Excalibur. Now it will be yours.”

  “I want it now, Auntie,” Mordred said. “I’m quite a big boy, you know. You don’t have to keep me away from sharp objects.”

  There is something you’re not telling me, Mordred thought privately. For the first time, he missed Frik. The gnome was a coward and had always been his mother’s groveling sycophant, but Frik could usually be tormented into revealing all the secrets he knew.

  “I know,” Mab said, reaching out to pat his hand. “But I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Mordred smiled and raised his cup in a silent toast. I don’t believe you, he told her silently. But it will be true. Trust me on that.

  The following day—so far as day and night could be measured here in the Land of Magic—Mab took Mordred to a chamber he had never seen before. There were racks of weapons along the walls, and in the center an arming bench. Mab gestured, and armor appeared on the arming bench.

  It was a dark pewter color except where the light fell directly upon it, when it shone with a deep iridescence. Flinging off his cloak and tunic and kicking off his boots, Mordred eagerly donned the scaled trousers and tunic. The boots and gauntlets were smooth, but of the same heavy grey leather as that which backed the scales. He transferred a few daggers from his old clothes to the new and then, fully garbed, he turned expectantly to Mab. She did not disappoint him.

  “Here is your device—the sign of the eclipse,” Mab said, handing Mordred a surcoat. “As the moon eclipses the sun, so the Old Ways will eclipse the New Religion—and your reign that of King Arthur’s.”

  The surcoat was of black velvet edged in silver lamé, and on the breast, in blackened silver, was a dark sun, the sign of the eclipse. Mab helped him slip the surcoat over his head, and then belted it about Mordred’s waist. At last she held out his helmet.

  “Wearing this, you are invincible.”

  The helm was a dull and forbidding grey, and concealed most of his face. Great steel bat-wings swept out from each side of it, giving it the look of some demon’s skull.

  Mordred liked it at once. He swirled his black cloak around his shoulders and took the helm from Mab, tucking it under one arm. Almost ready.

  But instead of handing him a sword as Mordred expected, Mab held out a key. It was impossible to tell what color it had originally been. Now it was a dull greenish black with age and neglect.

  “What’s this?” Mordred asked blankly.

  “It is the key to your destiny,” Mab told him. “I have given you three gifts—your strength, your power of persuasion, and your armor. You must take Caliban for yourself. Make me proud, Mordred!”

  “I shall exceed your wildest expectations,” Mordred assured her, smiling his twisted smile. Let her think he meant whatever she wished. Mordred had his own plans for the future, and they did not include the survival of any rivals.

  From earliest childhood Mordred had known he was very special to his Auntie Mab. She lavished attention on him and brought him gifts, and never, ever, told him he was wrong.

  Then he had found out that he was only second best in her eyes. Merlin came first. If not for Merlin, Mab would never have created Mordred, never sent Frik to charm his mother into falling in with Mab’s schemes. All along, in Mab’s every thought, Mordred came second.

  It was intolerable.

  Even when she spoke of what he would do in Camelot, Mab never spoke of the harm he was to do Merlin. It was only Arthur, Guinevere, Camelot, that he was to destroy.

  Never Merlin. Never Mab’s perfect special half-breed pet, the wizard to whom she had given far more of the Old Ways than she had ever given to Mordred.

  But Mordred had a special surprise in store for his Auntie Mab. He’d do all that she asked. He’d make Britain a howling wilderness, devoid of life.

  But he’d kill Merlin, too.

  Then she would love him best.

  She’d have to.

  A moment later he was alone in the room, staring down at the tarnished key. He looked around, but there didn’t seem to be any lock here that would fit it. Shrugging, Mordred stepped out into the hallway. It was a different hallway than it had been a few minutes before, but Mordred wasn’t surprised. He’d grown up with the Old Ways, and was used to the strange ways that magic worked.

  He looked up and down the hall, searching for the lock that matched the key. He already knew that Mab would make this as easy for him as possible. She’d always indulged him.

  But Mordred was beginning to feel that indulgence wasn’t quite enough, somehow. There had to be more to life than this. He’d always had a bright future ahead of him, and somehow it had disappeared when he wasn’t looking. He felt cheated.

  “Perhaps I can help you.”

  Mordred whirled toward the sound of that unfamiliar voice, and found himself staring at a man he had never seen before. His hand groped for the dagger at his belt, but somehow he suspected that this stranger wouldn’t be an easy victim.

  The stranger was dressed in grey leather that was studded all across the shoulders and front with tiny silver skulls. He had flowing red hair and a full red beard, and his eyes glowed a fiery Otherworldly scarlet. Ivory antlers branched from his forehead, and the black cloak that flowed from his shoulders was darker than a starless night.

  “Who the devil are you?” Mordred demanded rudely.

  “I am Idath, the Lord of Death,” the stranger answered austerely. He stepped aside, and behind him Mordred saw
a door that had not been there a moment before.

  “And?” Mordred clenched his fist over the key in his hand.

  “You have one last chance to turn away from the path you follow now, Prince Mordred. By the Ancient Law I must warn you that he who takes up the Black Sword Caliban may not lay it down until its task is accomplished. Theseus bore this sword, and Herod. Consider carefully what you do here.”

  Mordred regarded him insolently. “King Herod has always been one of my boyhood heroes. Now do run along. I’m afraid I have a very busy afternoon planned.”

  The horned man drew himself up to his full height, though he did not seem affronted by Mordred’s impertinent words. “Mock if you will—choose how you will. But know that for you as for all mortalkind there is no escape. We will meet again.”

  Mordred laughed, a little startled. “I suppose we will,” he said. He’d helped enough creatures out of this life to know that Death came for all, but to meet him now was an unexpected bonus to visiting Mab’s domain.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me something I don’t know?”

  Idath smiled, and for just an instant the Lord of Death didn’t look grim and old. “You know that Excalibur grants victory in battle to its wielder, and Caliban is its counterpart. But Caliban grants its wielder nothing but endings. When Caliban is drawn, it brings about the end of an age. All are swept away by its magic.”

  I’d like that, Mordred thought. All his life—his short unnatural life—he’d been restless and unsatisfied. He’d thought it was because he had a great task ahead of him, but the more he learned about his destiny, the less that thought comforted him. Mab had taught him to be clever and clear-sighted. He had grown to adulthood with supernatural speed—and he had no reason to think he would age any more slowly now. Where normal men could expect threescore and ten years of life, Mordred could hope for, at best, a dozen years. All the magic of Fairy could not grant immortality.

  In a way, it was just as well. At some point Mordred would have destroyed everything that there was to destroy. Here in the Land of Magic he had discovered that he could not imagine anything beyond that moment. Perhaps this way he would die before everything was gone.

  But the thought that someone, somewhere, might escape his attentions was a troubling one. At least with Caliban at his side Mordred could do his best to destroy everything before his time came.

  Mordred smiled his sweetest smile at the Lord of Death. “We’ll meet again,” Mordred said.

  He stepped forward and fitted his key into the lock. As he’d expected, the key fit perfectly. He turned it and pushed open the door.

  He staggered back, stunned by the brightness and heat. He looked around quickly to see if Idath were still there, but the Lord of Death had vanished.

  Good. Mordred hated it when people saw him caught off guard.

  Standing in the doorway was like standing in the open mouth of a furnace. From experience—and experiments—Mordred knew how unhealthy the inside of a furnace could be. Surely Mab didn’t mean him to go in there?

  Maybe he’d gotten the wrong door.

  But no. Auntie Mab had said that the key would open the door to the Black Sword… and that the armor would protect him so that he could reach it.

  Blinking furiously against the flames, Mordred slid the bat-winged helm over his head. The heat and the brightness receded, and he could see.

  The lake of fire stretched before him, and now in the distance he could see a glittering tower wreathed in clouds of steam, or fog. Mordred took a cautious step forward. There did not seem to be any other landmark in the inferno ahead, so he would make the crystal tower his destination. The fire was no real barrier. The Armor of Night would protect him, Mordred realized, and he was utterly without fear. Moving cautiously, he stepped out into the flames.

  He quickly realized that he could not walk across their surface, but the lake was only a few feet deep. Cinders crunched beneath his boots as he stepped forward. He could wade across.

  The constant roar of the flames was annoying, but the greatest hindrance Mordred actually faced was the constant hot wind that blew toward him with enough force to stagger him. But even there, his dragon-scale armor bore the brunt of the gale, and his inhuman strength took care of the rest.

  I’m sure this would test the ingenuity and valor of one of Arthur’s muscle-bound paladins, but I’m hardly in that class. No, upon careful consideration I’d have to say I’m something else entirely.…

  In fact, there was a distinct sense of anticlimax as Mordred reached the pillar. It was not glass, as he’d first thought, but an enchanted ice that the flames could not melt, and the cold that it radiated was nearly as painful as the heat of the flames had been. Embedded in its depths he could see the Black Sword, but there did not seem to be any opening in the ice through which he could get to it.

  Mordred rested the palms of his gauntlets against the surface of the ice, ignoring the bite of the cold. At the touch of his blisteringly hot dragonskin glove, water welled up beneath his fingers, trickling down the shaft of the pillar, but melting his way through—even if it was possible—would take too long. Patience was not on the short list of Mordred’s virtues.

  Drawing back his fist, Mordred struck the pillar. The ice cracked beneath the impact of his supernatural strength but did not shatter, and in his impatience he struck it again and again. The transparency of the ice went dull and white as its interior fractured under the impact of the blows. Mordred dug his fingers into its surface, flinging handfuls of the ice into the flames.

  “Interesting,” he said aloud.

  Everywhere the ice struck, the flames died out, exposing the bed of coals beneath. They were white with ash, glowing red in their depths.

  “But not really helpful,” he decided.

  Mordred turned back to the pillar, and was relieved to see that the ice had not magically repaired itself. He scooped out as much of the cracked ice as he could, but digging his way in to the sword would take almost as long as trying to melt his way in.

  “Mother always said I was too impatient,” he said.

  There was a deep hole near the base of the ice pillar. Mordred leaned against the column, shoving against it as hard as he could.

  At first nothing happened, but then there was a low groaning, and a series of sharp cracks like breaking bones. He felt a sort of grating vibration beneath his hands, and the top half of the pillar began to shift away from him. Slowly, with a sound almost like tearing, it tilted, then toppled, just as if it were a tree whose root had been chopped through. A hundred feet of ice struck the fire lake, throwing up a huge wave of fire that rippled outward in all directions, exposing the glowing coals of the lake bed. Instead of splashing back to fill the gap, the fire continued to recede, and the circle of embers grew. Mordred watched, fascinated, as the great column of ice melted away, dousing the fire lake as it dwindled. Soon the fire was only a thin line of red on the distant horizon, and Mordred was standing on a bed of coals, seeing by their dim red light.

  He glanced back at the ice. Caliban was thrusting up out of the melting stump. Mordred reached out and drew it free.

  In every way Caliban was Excalibur’s opposite. Its blade was dull and pitted, and the quillons and pommel were shabby and unadorned. The only decoration anywhere upon it was the image of a comet cut crudely into the haft itself.

  Mordred frowned, gazing at it. A black sword for an ill-made knight, but Mordred was no knight, and didn’t want to be one. He rejected all of that chivalric futility. If he carried a weapon onto a battlefield, it would be something more efficient and less romantic than a sword.

  As if it knew and could understand his thoughts, Caliban rippled in his grasp. Surprised, Mordred nearly dropped it as the shape of the metal flowed and changed, but he held fast, and when it had stilled again, he found himself holding an ax.

  Like the sword it had been, the ax was dull black from its narrow curved blade to its long utilitarian haft. Except for the
image of the comet cut into the shaft of the ax just below the head, the new weapon had nothing in common with the sword it had been a moment before—nothing except for the force of magic and the aura of deadly purpose that infused it.

  Mordred tossed the ax up into the air and caught it again, laughing. Now he was ready to go… home.

  Wouldn’t his father and his dear stepmama be surprised to see him?

  The heliograph had sent word that Arthur and his knights were in Calais. It was a matter of a few days—perhaps less—before the King returned to Camelot after a seven-year absence.

  And what would greet him there? A Queen who did not love him—whose behavior was a scandal in open court—the threat of a son begotten in sorcery.

  And worse to come.

  Merlin watched the stars, as his first teacher Blaise had taught him, searching for messages in the endless dance of stars and planets. But lately there had been a new wonder in the sky: a celestial wanderer like none he had ever seen before, moving swiftly through the houses of the Zodiac, trailing glory behind it.

  The ancient Greeks had written of these “hairy stars,” or comets, and Merlin knew there was nothing of sorcery about its appearance. But the manifestations of the natural world often served as warnings, and Merlin wondered if this comet might be one such. Even if it was not, it would soon be visible to even a casual observer, and the superstitious might read all manner of dire portents into it, to the returning king’s misfortune.

  Merlin knew he must do all that he could to protect Arthur. He had considered what he should do ever since word had come that the King was returning, and now there was no more time to ponder. Reluctantly, Merlin had reached a conclusion. For the safety of Camelot, he knew what he must do.

  Telling no one where he was going—or even that he was leaving—Merlin summoned Sir Rupert and rode toward Sarum.